


In a Week

by rinwolfe



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Discussions of death, Gen, Hozier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-05 07:53:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3111986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rinwolfe/pseuds/rinwolfe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a beautiful meadow, Sherlock and John have a heavy discussion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In a Week

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the song of the same title by Hozier, on his self-titled album. I do not own these characters, although I'd love to have Moffet on a leash. Not in a sexual way, but in a "you-cannot-be-trusted-by-yourself" sort of way.  
> Unbeta'd, unbritpicked, written while drinking.  
> Please note - gut wounds bleed out VERY SLOWLY and SUCK HORRIBLY.

"You believe in an afterlife, correct?"

Startled by the question, John shifted his gaze to his surroundings. The meadow was situated on a gently-sloping mountain and was bordered by ancient pines, one of which they were leaning against. There were more small, yellow flowers blooming than there would be stars in the sky that night. If it weren't for the blood on his hands, his jeans, he would feel like he was in a postcard.

"Sherlock, I really don't feel like this is the time-"

"If now isn't the time," he interrupted, his voice rumbling through John even as it weakened, "then when is?"

John's eyes met Sherlock's, then shifted to the corpse about six meters from them, then to the sky. It was clear, and blue, and perfect in a way that it never was in London.

"I suppose I do, yeah," he eventually replied. His voice shook in his throat.

"Tell me about it."

John looked down at Sherlock, who's head rested on his chest mere inches away. The other man's eyes were unfocused and half-lidded.

"Let me check your-"

Sherlock grabbed at John's hands, stopping their movements around his stomach and the scarf pressed to it, which was slowly being stained red. He gripped John's calloused, rough hands which were turning slick with the blood seeping from the gunshot. "Please."

John tensed. He clenched his hands, still held by Sherlock's enormous ones, and then returned to simply adding pressure to the wound. Sherlock grunted in pain.

"I was raised Catholic. You know this, Sherlock."

"Doesn't mean you still believe," he retorted. 

Irene Adler flashed through John's mind, the shadows of the warehouse, the crates and stacks and dust. _He will outlive God trying to have the last word._

How he wished it were true.

"I was taught there was a Heaven and a Hell. There really isn't much to discuss-"

"Yes, yes," Sherlock interrupted, then coughed into his palm. The phlegm was blood-free, John noted, but blood spurted harshly from the gunshot as his muscles tensed. "What about _you_. What do you _believe?_ "

"I- God _damnit_ , Sherlock."

"So you do believe in a hell."

"Wha -" John's gaze was, again, drawn to the corpse lying face-down in the flowers, gun still clutched in it's hand, his attention brought to the sharp throbbing in what had been his good leg. He thought of sand, of dry wind, of sunlight that burned instead of caressed. He thought of fire, of hatred, of good men who laughed while aiming at children. He thought of what his own hands have done, of the blood both literally and figuratively on them. If he had just been a _moment quicker_ \- and he knew. "I do."

"And heaven?"

Sherlock and John both turned their weary gazes to the blue infinity above them. John rested his head against the pine's trunk, glad that the branches above them allowed them spaces to see the sky.

"I don't know," he whispered.

"Interesting," Sherlock wheezed. His breaths were becoming more ragged. "I would expect that one who believed in an afterlife for the supposed evil of the world would believe in one for the good, as well."

John gripped the scarf on Sherlock's stomach tighter. "And what about you?"

"I have never particularly thought about it," Sherlock responded slowly. "I was always caught up in the present, looking for the next answer or the next high. An afterlife - well, I never saw evidence for or against it. I never felt the need to think about it. It never factored in to any plans, any experiments, any tests. But now..." Ice-blue eyes stared into John's with an intent that he couldn't read.

"Now what?" he whispered, John's voice barely audible over the gentle susurrus of the wind among the trees.

"Now, John, I think it matters." Sherlock's voice was as soft as John's.

"Why?"

"I want to go where you go."

John let out a surprised laugh, then winced as his leg moved. After their mountain guide - and apparently the murderer they were looking for - had shot Sherlock in the stomach, he had gotten in a lucky shot and hit John in the leg, right before John got him in the head.

"No, Sherlock. You really don't."

"Why n - Oh, you believe you're going to your Hell, then."

John looked away, uncomfortable.

"I would follow you into the depths of Hell, John Watson."

John's attention once again shot fully to the man on his chest. Sherlock's breathing was erratic, his pulse weak, but still he held John's gaze with a ferocious strength.

"It only seems fair, after all."

"After following you around for so long?" John's voice broke. "Yeah, I'd say so." He wished his hands were clean, were free, weren't holding Sherlock's blood in his body so that he could cup the other man's impossible face.

"And Heaven has always seemed boring to me," Sherlock continued in an off-hand tone. As if he weren't dying. "Floating around on clouds for eternity, knowing the answer to everything... Boring!"

At this, John smiled. He wished he were at a better angle to see Sherlock's face, to reach out better to him, but moving wasn't an option. "Yeah," he eventually responded. "I could see you getting kicked out."

"I would expect the great serial killers of history would be in Hell as well... do you suppose I could interview them?"

And with that, John let out a great laugh - jostling both of them. They simultaneously groaned in pain, and John instinctively let go with one hand to clutch at the mangled mess of blood and meat that was now his thigh.

"I suppose," he said, as they settled as best they could. They fell into silence. Birds called in the distance, softly, gently. In any other occasion, John would be glad he had this opportunity to relax amid the Alps. The trees below their meadow shifted almost imperceptibly in the breeze swooping up the mountain. Squirrels chattered in the distance. A lone sheep's call echoed among the gently cresting mountains. John had never known peace like this, had never seen colors quite like these mountains in spring. A dreadful calm overcame the two men waiting to die.

"John," Sherlock eventually murmured, breaking the silence.

"Yes?" John prompted when Sherlock did not continue his thought.

"Even if there is no afterlife... even if we die here and the animals feast on our flesh, the bugs eat our bones... I will be honored for it so long as you are by my side."

John sat in silence, jaw opened slightly. There were no words that could aptly describe the sudden influx of warmth - of love - that filled John's chest at this speech. He floundered for a moment, searching in all the beauty around him to find words that would adequately pass on just how much that meant to him.

In the end, he had to settle.

"And I you, Sherlock. And I you."

"Thank you," Sherlock whispered, his gaze once more unfocused, his face pale. "I ask of you, then, one more favor."

"What is it, anything."

"If I haven't bled out in an hour, shoot me."

John was already pale from his own blood loss, but at this, he thoroughly blanched. "Sherlock - Help has to be here soon, and gut wounds bleed slowly -"

"Help will be here in a week at best, John. It took them two months to discover the hikers, after all."

"But Sherlock, with Mycroft-"

"Our phones haven't had signal since we entered this range, John," Sherlock said weakly in response. "And even if they did find us, I will likely develop sepsis in-"

He started coughing, and John simply held on, his lips pressed together. John knew. Sherlock's intestines, and possibly stomach, were ripped open. If blood loss didn't kill him, which would be a quiet death, the digestive fluid leaking into his abdominal cavity surely will. Slowly, John bent his head to rest against Sherlock's scalp. His tears seeped slowly into the riot of Sherlock's curls.

"Of course, Sherlock."

Slowly, quietly, Sherlock's breath slowed.

**Author's Note:**

> Ending A:  
> A small family of foxes appeared at the edge of the clearing, John noted as Sherlock became unconscious. A mother and two kits. They watched the two injured men warily, stepping slowly into the clearing. After a period of time, ducking back into and out of the woods, they reached the corpse of the murderer. As the mother thoroughly inspected the body the two kits played and licked the blood, gnawing on brains.
> 
> Fascinated, John watched for a time, before Sherlock started wheezing and talking feverishly in his sleep.
> 
> Two shots echoed throughout the valley.
> 
> Ending B:  
> Mycroft was suspicious the moment Sherlock and John's phones lost signal and immediately dispatched helicopters. Couldn't Sherlock tell the mountain guide they were with was clearly the murderer, and would likely kill them as well?
> 
> The aid arrived just in time, and Sherlock and John lived happily ever after and declared their love to each other and had lots of sex in a big house in Sussex where Sherlock kept bees and John tended to farmer's injuries, which were surprisingly interesting.
> 
>  
> 
> Sorry not sorry


End file.
